Phobia
by Wolfenmoon
Summary: Sherlock never met anyone who he couldn't figure out, but this time, it looked like he'd met his match. But there was a lot he didn't know about the Spider, starting with age, how again had the great Sherlock Holms been bested by a 16 year old? R AND R!
1. Chapter 1

"Fine!" Sherlock yelled. The dark haired man straightening abruptly from where he'd been crouching next to the body of a young man. Back arched in frustration, long pale fingers knotted in his wavy dark hair. He scanned the room around him with a flicker of anger. The walls were a dark red, covered in the attractive wall paper of a travel company house. There was no carpet, only shining, perfectly polished hard wood floor, the light brown of the wood standing out against the almost black wood that made up the bed. The coverlet was blinding white and with the wall lamp shining on it, it did seem to glow. All and all, the effect was pleasing and intimate with an air of warmth and just enough sultry colors to make the room a perfect place for an affair. However, the scene was far from pleasant.

He'd been here for 10 minutes, checking everything he could think of. Still he had no theories. Finally he'd reached his breaking point and now stood staring angrily at the body at his feet as if it was the cause of all his problems. In a way it was Sherlock admitted, but that thought was pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable, which he readily admitted he'd never understood nor cared about. The body was of a young man, blond, blue eyed, fit, and by his clothing, financially well off. The white dress shirt was perfectly tailored, and unbuttoned to the second, showing just a hint of well muscled chest. A silver chain hung loosely around his neck. The pants were jeans, expensive with an embroidered design on the left cuff. The shoes shone, Italian black leather, at least 300 dollars. The man had died with his mouth and eyes opened in what looked to be surprise, there was no obvious signs of pain. One thing annoyed Sherlock, there was no name to be found on the body and no leads with which he could produce one.

"What?" Lestrade asked, alarmed at the sudden outburst. Sherlock shook his head.

"This one is good. It's almost like he knew I was coming, there is nothing here that I can use." Sherlock said in a growl, his face twisted into a mask of frustration and a hint of anger.

"Well what can you tell us?" Lestrade inquired, hoping to jog the mind of his most useful detective.

"Next to nothing." The man answered, eyes not straying from the corpse's face.

"Tell anyway."

"This man is young, probably late twenties to early thirties. He's well off, but not important. His build sais that he's social, attractive and very well liked and would like to keep it that way. Judging by the showy and revealing style of clothing, he was going to or coming back from a club when he was killed. And by the look on his face, his demise was unexpected."

"Who ever expects to die?" John pointed out.

"A valid point but those who are important enough to have enemies, have a certain level of acquaintance with the thought and are not caught completely unaware by threats. Now the blatant, opened shock on his face, says two things; this man was a) not important enough to be killed, or b) killed by someone very unexpected. I'm not quite sure which one."

"Anything else? Name, cause of death." Lestrade asked looking up hopefully.

"This killer is experienced and very cunning. There are no traces on the body to tell me who he was, where he worked, or how he was killed. It's the perfect crime." Sherlock said, a touch of awe creeping into his voice as he observed the scene again. Lestrade sighed.

"John, perhaps you can be of assistance." John walked obediently forward and set about his autopsy. Five minutes later he began to talk.

"No bodily harm, injuries, no signs of a struggle or fight. Skin is cold, clammy, pupil's dilated, mouth dry, throat swollen slightly. Chest muscles tight. A puncture wound in the neck, looks to be made by a syringe. That must be the cause. This man was injected with something. Only tests will show what that was but it caused the gradual failure of all major body systems but did not leave a trace on the surface." John stood up, wide eyed. He turned to Sherlock.

"What kind of person are we looking at here."

"A genius." Sherlock said a smirk gracing his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

So here's the next installment still short so sorry

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock... so yeah. I gain nothing but emotional satisfaction and relief from boredom

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John Watson came home to a flat, literally torn apart. Boxes were tipped over, books strewn across the floor, the skull was on the ground across the room, and the wall was riddled with bullet holes. To anyone else, this scene would have screamed, break in, but to John, it was a scene created out of desperation. Sherlock had finally snapped.

"Sherlock!" John called, waiting for the answer he knew would come in the form of a quiet disinterested voice. The silence stretched for a moment.

"Here." There it was. John followed the voice to the darkened quarters of the sociopathic man he lived with. A figure sat slumped forward on the bed, hands curled into the halo of wavy black hair surrounding the head of Sherlock Holms. The posture screamed stress, and the tension pooled in the broad shoulders seemed to infect the air. John approached slowly and carefully stretched a hand out to touch his friend.

"Sherlock. Are you okay?" The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock bolted upright, staring into John's eyes with his own burning blue ones. Behind those irises danced anger, embarrassment, frustration, more anger, helplessness. All of the emotions that the consulting detective could not or would not show on his face.

"I'm fine." He growled. There was a pause. "This, however is not fine. We have a serial killer here, with 4 murders, four completely different people, and no idea as to the motive or the identity of the killer. I'm supposed to be able to figure these things out, but this is beyond me. There is no connection, no clues, and no mistakes. Even Moriarty wasn't this clean with his crime scenes." Sherlock buried his hands in his hair again.

"It's okay. You said so yourself, we just have to wait for him to slip up." John said.

"Her." Sherlock countered.

"Sorry?"

"Her. Judging by the look of surprise on the victim's faces, it's more logical that the murderer would be female and therefore more unexpected." John took a moment to process this.

"Her then. She'll mess up and when she does, you'll hunt her down. Like you always do." Sherlock shook his head and sighed.

"No John. Killers this clean don't just mess up. If I find her, it will be because she wants me to."

"But you will find her Sherlock- that's the important part." They shared a shaky smile and John stood, pulling Sherlock from the darkened room. "Let's go do something." He said. Sherlock nodded, reached for his coat and the phone rang. Sighing Sherlock answered.

"Yes."

"It's Lestrade"

"I know." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's unnecessary introduction. "I have caller ID you know." Lestrade sighed.

"Right. Well there's been another killing; something's different with this one."

"Oh?" Sherlock said his curiosity peaked.

"Yeah. It's a joint killing. A husband and a wife." Sherlock blinked.

"Two at once?"

"I did say that yes?" Lestrade said good naturedly unable to resist getting a jab in at the genius. "Will you come?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, pulling his coat on and heading for the door, a glint in his eyes. "Maybe this time we'll get something useful." He said smiling. John sighed and opened the door, ready to get dragged back on the case. Sherlock hung up and hurried down the stairs.

"So?" John prompted as they sat in the back seat of the taxi.

"Joint murder, a couple. Maybe this is the break I needed." Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement. Nails drumming impatiently on his jean clad knee. John sighed, secretly happy that his friend was excited and hoping that whatever needed to happen would.

The crime scene wasn't interesting in the slightest. Two people found in the hallway outside the door to their flat, both lying where they fell with no order what so ever. Lestrade greeted Sherlock with a sad smile. Sherlock went straight for the bodies.

"They were found early this morning by their land lord. Names, Mr. and Ms. Pinksburry. 36 and 34. Work in a bank." Lestrade rattled off information in a monotone voice.

"Doesn't check out." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Sorry?" Lestrade crossed his fingers.

"Not much interesting here except their rings. Silver, obviously married, happily at that, frequently removed. Why? A bank job doesn't require the removal of wedding rings, so something else. Let me see, happily married, shiny silver, both are frequently taken off and hidden from view. So affairs yes. Both, so opened relationship. Both are dressed in some kind of leather somewhere on their bodies. Man wearing a leather jacket, spiked hair, muscle shirt. Woman, knee high leather boots, heavy makeup, revealing top. These two have been to a strip club. Together, makes no sense. Those boots are expensive. Bank jobs don't pay well enough. Alternate form of employment. So affairs, plus leather plus expenses, these two own a strip club." There was a long pause.

"Okay." Lestrade said, pausing again, to digest this new bit of information. "So how does this fit in?" Sherlock thought for a moment.

"All the victims have been dressed in clubbing attire." He said."We're looking for someone with an issue with clubbing. Someone who hates something about it enough to kill."

"So what now?" Sherlock sighed

"Find out which club these two owned. See if you can find a frequent guest list; try to identify those other people." Sherlock said, pulling his coat around his shoulders and heading out the door.

"Of course but- HEY! Where are you going?" Lestrade called to Sherlock's back. The tall man turned around for a moment and smirked.

"Clubbing. John would you like to join me?" John sighed and followed his partner from the room, leaving a confused, surprised Lestrade and an angry Anderson staring at the staircase where the two had just vanished.

"Clubbing?" Anderson spat shaking his head. "He just wants to get off."

"Clubbing is the logical choice. As for Sherlock getting off, I'd rather not think about that. If you wish to do so, please do it in the privacy of your own room." Lestrade said turning his back and heading for the stairs. "Get started on that background check." He tossed over his shoulder. Anderson stood, shaking with anger, red faced and embarrassed, cursing Sherlock Holms for all he was worth in every language that he knew and if that was only one language then... Anderson sighed and texted Donovan, about the background check.


	3. Chapter 3

Longer chapter this time! YAY ME! Review please.

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The taxi dropped them outside a club called Pulse and for a moment both men stared apprehensively at the tinted windows, almost vibrating with the combination of human life and loud music. Sherlock sighed and then moved towards the line of people waiting to get in. It was John who stopped him, grabbing on to the arm of his obnoxiously billowy black coat. Slowly Sherlock turned to face him.

"Yes John?" He said, slowly and with an air of one who is being forced to endure severe punishment.

"There's a slight problem." John said, ignoring the patronizing look painted on Sherlock's face.

"And what might that be?" Sherlock tipped his head, genuinely confused.

"The goal is to blend in so that we can observe and collect information." John stated. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Naturally."

"Then how are we supposed to blend in if we're not dressed to go clubbing?" John pointed out, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he basked in the notion that he'd noticed something that the great Sherlock Holms with his massive intellect had not." Sherlock looked from his clothes, to John's clothes, to the people in the line. He blinked.

"hmmm…. How do you propose we fix this issue." He asked. Now it was John who rolled his eyes.

"We go shopping." He said, grabbing Sherlock by the arm, and dragging him down, the street, ignoring the stream of protests spilling from his friend's lips.

The store they went to was hard to find. The only advertizing it received was a small neon sign above a furniture store with an arrow pointing down. When John stopped in front of the door, Sherlock looked from him to the display window and then back, a confused look on his face.

"Okay. So we need to dress to impress not to intimidate so not to clean cut but not slutty." John explained. Sherlock blinked.

"So furniture is attractive to most people?" He asked, honestly confused. John sighed, rolled his eyes and resumed dragging him. He opened to glass door of the store and then took a quick left, down a black brick hallway. At the end, was another door, black metal this time, and beyond it a stainless steel staircase lit with purple neon on the ceiling. John walked down confidently with Sherlock behind him, looking completely out of his depth. When John reached the bottom he disappeared momentarily causing Sherlock to take a quick breath. However moments later, when Sherlock reached the bottom that breath was stolen.

The store unfolded around the genius, all steel racks black leather and neon lights. The shadows were used to the utmost efficiency and gave the place a mysterious yet sensual air. The entire place screamed glamour. Sherlock suddenly felt horribly out of place and found himself wondering how he'd ended up in a store like this _or in a store period, wasn't shopping John's job?_ Black light neon announced the sections of the store in arching letters on the walls. Eyes, flicking around, Sherlock took it all in; Tops, Bottoms, Accessories, Cosmetics, Shoes, Toys… Sherlock stopped reading. One look at the assortment of leather gadgets and he'd seen enough. His store wide sweep ended there.

The clerk, a bleached blond man sat behind the black metal desk. When they entered, he quickly stood up showing, an expensive suit jacket, white jeans, and expensive leather boots. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he had impeccable fashion sense… for a gay man that is. He stepped slowly from behind his desk, blue eyes running over Sherlock's figure from his intelligent eyes and shock of black hair, to his shoes. There was a momentary pause and then those eyes flicked to John. The face lit up and a grin broke over his features. In seconds he was in front of John, hugging him.

"John! Hello Dearest how have you been. You simply must come and see me more often." The voice was high pitched, with the stereotypical lisp commonly associated with gay men. Sherlock took a step back as the man continued, picking John up and swinging him first to the left then right before setting him gently on his feet. He stepped back to look down at the dirty blond man.

"How long has it been? 6 months, 7?" He said.

"Eight." John answered, breathlessly.

"EIGHT! What did I do wrong? I do so love looking at your adorable face. Oh! And your sister! How is the lovely Harriet?" The man flipped his hair and smiled.

"Harry is fine Kev, coming to see you actually." John smiled.

"Good to know. I'll make sure we have what she likes. Now, who's your friend?" John turned to Sherlock, who was still looking slightly like a deer in the headlights.

"Kev, this is my coworker Sherlock Holms. Sherlock, my best friend and belated fashion consultant, Kevin Mason." Kevin bounced forward and took Sherlock's hand in his soft pale one. The light glistened off his ring.

"Please to meet someone who is both John's friend and has fashion sense. Hopefully you will rub off on him. I've been trying to clean him up for years." Kevin's eyes left Sherlock and moved back to John, his face contorting in disgust at the sight of his clothing. He put a hand over his mouth.

"Oh dear. We must get you over those jumpers. You have so much potential."

"That's why we're here actually. Sherlock and I need Club worthy clothes." Kevin let out an excited whoop once again causing Sherlock's eyes to widen.

"I get to play dress up and with such nice dolls too." He hurried away towards the racks. "Which club?" He asked.

"Pulse." John answered watching his friends back. Kevin's hands froze for a moment, before he turned moving to another part of the store.

"Pulse eh, not really your scene John. Any particular reason?"

"Just work." John said. Kevin made a noncommittal noise and continued searching. John turned to Sherlock.

"You alright?" He asked. Sherlock shook his head and nodded.

"Fine."He answered, flashing a strained smile.

"Good. Shall we continue?" John walked away without waiting for a reply and began to chat comfortably with the gay man, leaving Sherlock to trail behind, feeling distinctly unwanted. Immediately the genius cut off that train of thought and waited patiently for Kevin to find the right outfits. However as he and John stood laughing and smiling together, Sherlock felt a tiny ball of anger flare in his stomach. Only he was allowed to make John laugh like that.

30 minutes later they were ready. Sherlock was wearing a black shirt, opened to the third button, dark grey jeans, and leather shoes. A silver chain rested around his neck. But in spite of clothing change, he still looked very like the everyday Sherlock. John on the other hand wore a white, skin tight, V neck T-shirt, dark wash boot cut jeans, and shin length black boots. The shirt clung to his body enough that the outlines of his muscles were just visible enough to hint at the build beneath the clothes. A black belt sat low on his hips and a matching bracelet adorned his left wrist. His hair had been combed up in the front and gelled slightly. The result was an attractive, mature, stylish, self confident man, who Sherlock may or may not have been unable to stop staring at. Kevin walked around and inspected his subjects.

"Lookin' good!" Kevin said, clapping his hands together.

"So can we go?" John asked.

"Of course. Just wait for me to lock up." Kevin said skipping away.

"Um… What?" John asked, glancing quickly at Sherlock.

"Well of course I'm coming with you. Between the two of you, you'll get kicked out right away. John would last longer that you Sherlock, but still 10 minutes maximum. So if you want to stay in that club, which I'm pretty sure is what your work depends on, you're gonna need some help." Kevin said, while pulling on a designer leather jacket.

"Touché." John said sighing as Kevin hooked a hand through his arm and escorted him from the store. Sherlock rolled his eyes and swallowed the various insults he seemed to have a burning need to say and followed the two from the store. And that uncomfortable knot in his stomach was not jealousy. It wasn't. Sherlock Holms was NOT jealous of skinny, blond, gay boy, who just happened to be holding John's arm. HE WAS NOT JEALOUS! Okay maybe just a tiny little bit…. maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment you've all been waiting for... or maybe not. Review!

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The club was even louder inside than John had thought. Pink lights flashed overhead periodically bathing them in red. The air was thick with the smell of perfume mixed with the lower undertone of sweat; a smell that John noted was distinctly human. And human it should be. Every square foot of space in the club was occupied by a body. Women sat on men's laps, leaned laughing over the bar to flirt with the stylish male bartender. Men writhed enthusiastically against both men and women on a dance floor so packed, it was impossible to know who it was you were dancing with. The dancers didn't seem to mind, enjoying the friction and the feeling of another body.

Sherlock automatically hated the club. _Too many people. Such an illogical and boring idea. What exactly is the point?_ Sherlock posed that question to John in an attempt to understand but it was Kevin who answered. Sherlock wanted to throttle him.

"What's the point of a club? To disappear of course! People come here to have a good time and forget who they are for a moment. All problems melt away when you're clubbing and for the night, you are the music and the lights, and the lust and no one cares. You don't exist. People hate coming down from that. That's why they come back." Kevin looked down sadly. "It's been too long since I was here." He said quietly. Concern flashed across John's face. The song ended.

"Kev? You okay?" John asked during the lull in the noise. The bleached blond shook his head as if to clear it.

"Yeah. Of course." Kevin answered quickly.

"Is Brice okay?" John asked seriously, holding the blonde's gaze. Kevin nodded vigorously.

"Yeah. He's fine. Got a new job actually." Kevin smiled.

"Oh? In what?" John asked, genuinely interested. The smile faltered.

"Not actually sure. I'll find out." Kevin turned away, walking around the dance floor. John glanced at Sherlock, shrugged and followed. Together the three men drifted aimlessly towards the bar. Once seated on the shiny wooden bar stools, they relaxed. Kevin was smiling coyly up at the dark eyed bartender and ordering a cocktail in a silky smooth voice. The bartender reached out a hand and ran it over the blonde's silky smooth hair. The two smiled at each other and with one last pat, the bartender moved away to take another order. Kevin crossed the floor and took the seat next to John.

"Who's that?" John asked smiling.

"Bartender Robby." Kevin said with a smirk. "He's a friend of Brice's."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing much he just like my outfit, complimented my makeup. Still has an obsession about my hair." Kevin smiled and shook his head.

"That's not what I saw." Sherlock said opening his mouth for an explanation before being silenced by John's rather pointy elbow as it connected with the detective's side. Kevin just laughed.

"Robby's just like that, always flirting." The blond looked at the bartender who was currently chatting up some pretty girls at the other end of the bar. He smiled. John laughed as he followed his friend's gaze. Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept silent. The trio remained oblivious to the tall man who had entered the bar behind them.

An hour after Kevin's drink, John excused himself and vanished into the crowd leaving Sherlock alone with his new nemesis. For an uncomfortable moment, they just stared at each other.

"So… you known John long?" Kevin leaning back against the smooth dark wood of the bar.

"Not long." Sherlock replied staring unblinkingly into the other man's blue eyes. Kevin, to Sherlock's surprise, gazed back confidently; content to say nothing, until Sherlock had to look away. In one interaction Kevin had done a very important thing, he had earned Sherlock's respect. He was however far from being granted approval.

"Not quite two months." Sherlock elaborated, reaching for the clear glass of water a few inches from his long pale finger tips.

"You must be something then." Kevin chuckled.

"Elaborate." Sherlock demanded, tipping his head.

"I've known John for oh gods… I don't know. We met at my cousin's 12th birthday party. Harry and John were 15 I had just turned 14. The three of us had a cake fight and pissed off my aunt and uncle. We've been best friends ever since, well with Harry. John's always had my back." Kevin laughed. "I knew him when he used to laugh all the time, when he could have a night of fun, when he could sleep without screaming, when he would still trust people." A look of anger transformed the younger man's soft features and he clenched his hand into a fist.

"I knew him before Afghanistan chewed him up and spit him out and left him dying in that god forsaken sand." There was a silence. "And I say you must be really damn special. I don't know what he sees in you." Kevin's eyes seemed to darken as he concentrated on Sherlock.

"You, a "high functioning sociopath" who reads people like books, who doesn't understand feelings. You play violin, talk to inanimate objects, conduct experiments with socially unacceptable things most of them various human body parts to get rid of your boredom. You have a brother whom you hate but who worries about you much like John and Harry actually. You are a former cocaine addict and you are in love with John Watson." Kevin sat back, a smirk on his face at the frozen Sherlock sitting in front of him. Sherlock slowly unthawed and leant backwards, crossing his fingers.

"Is that what it feels like when I deduct people?" He asked himself. Kevin laughed, the concentration melting from his face, leaving Sherlock blushing slightly as he realized that he'd asked the question aloud.

"Probably." The two shared a smile.

"I won't take him away you know." Sherlock looked up, eyebrow raised in surprise.

"What?" he asked. Kevin leaned closer.

"I won't take him away from you. You for some reason are good for him. I wouldn't take that from him. John and I were like brothers but you, you mean more than that." Sherlock leaned closer and the two sat in silence for a moment.

"Thank you." He said. There was another shared smile as Sherlock forced himself to admit that Kevin was a decent, moderately intelligent human being who John was allowed to like.

After that, Sherlock raised his eyes to look towards the end of the bar where a tall man with brown hair stood conversing with the bartender. Robby raised a hand and pointed to John, returning from what Sherlock correctly assumed was the rest room. The man turned and moved towards the veteran, eyeing a busty brunet on his way. The girl, wearing black knee high boots, a bleated black skirt and a dark green tank top, moved to sling an arm around Kevin's shoulders.

"Better run honey." She said, flashing a worried glance at Sherlock and then vanishing quickly into the crowd.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked, watching her retreating back. Kevin spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

"I have no idea." He tossed his head to the side, flicking his bangs out of his eyes. As he did so, his silver gage earring became hooked on the chain links of the necklace resting at his collar bones.

"Oh hell. I hate it when this happens." He groused beginning the process of freeing himself. Sherlock let him struggle for a moment, before stepping in.

"Let me do it." He said, reaching forwards. Kevin froze for a moment and then dropped his hands letting Sherlock's long fingers take over the job, pads brushing gently against his neck. John chose that moment to come back with someone else. The tall man who had entered the bar just behind the three men earlier, stood next to the army doctor.

"Who's this Kevin?"


	5. Chapter 5

YAY NEW CHAPTER!

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Sherlock woke in the morning a headache lingering at the edge of his consciousness like a bad dream. He could feel the heat from it pressing into the space between his ears and behind his eyes like a vice around his brain. He sat up and shivered at the brush of cold air that chilled the strip of skin above his hips where his pajama shirt didn't quite meet the top o his pants. It was then that he realized that the shirt he wore did not belong to him. The slightly scratchy cinnamon brown jumper resting just below his belly button was definitely not his. Frantically he glanced around the room for something to tell him where he was. After seeing the periodic table tacked to the wall, the piles and piles of news papers and notes littering the floor and finally the coonskin cap laying on the bedside table next to the hot pink rubber duck that he concluded that the bed room was in fact his. With a groan, Sherlock staggered to his feet and into the living room, swaying slightly as the previously lurking headache took center stage with a flourish that made him put a pale hand to his head. He groaned again and stopped to lean against the door frame to the living room.

John Watson was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee, eating eggs on toast, and reading the newspaper. On the counter was a plastic shopping bag. Sherlock sighed and collapsed onto the couch.

"Morning Sherlock." John said, not looking up at all.

"John." Sherlock moaned pitifully throwing a hand over his eyes.

"Coffee's in the kitchen." Sherlock sat still for a moment before summoning the energy to move. He stood with a huff and stomped into the kitchen. He passed a hand over both eyes and down his face, as he spoke.

"Tell me, we didn't sing Karaoke." He said.

"Ah. No. I believe that was just you." John didn't look up.

"And the dancing on the table?" he groaned, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

"You." John said.

"And the Shot contest?" Sherlock sand onto the tiled floor.

"And again."

"Well, did anything interesting happen while I was trashed?" Sherlock growled.

"Not a thing." John said slowly, turning the page.

"Oh." There was a pause.

"One last question." John sighed in a long suffering sort of way. He looked up.

"Continue."

"Why am I wearing your pajamas?"

"You set yours on fire." John deadpanned. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily and then he sighed. The taller man shuffled off to get dress making a mental note to avoid clubs at all costs for the rest of his life. John snickered as the detective slammed the door to his room. Seconds after he disappeared, Lestrade knocked at the door.

"Morning John." The inspector said running a tired hand through his short grey hair. "How are the two of you today?" John smiled.

"Sherlock's slightly hung over and will need new pajamas, but other than that we're fine." Lestrade nodded.

"That's good. Wait- What?" John nodded towards the doorway as Sherlock came bouncing in.

"See for yourself."

"Lestrade! Have anything new for me?" The dark haired man asked excitedly.

"This one's more personal." Lestrade said slowly eyes taking in Sherlock's semi coherent image. Sherlock blinked.

"Personal to me?" How did they do that?"

"Only Moriarty could and no. Thos one's or John." John looked up to find Sherlock looking at him.

"What happened? Is Harry okay?" Lestrade nodded. John relaxed.

"Do you know someone named Brice Hundec?" John straightened.

"He was murdered last night." Lestrade said. John was silent.

"Kevin. Is Kevin okay?" He asked quietly

"We called the house and no one answered." Lestrade said. "Neighbors said no one had been home in two days." John swore and grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called as John made his way out the door.

"To find Kevin of course." With that John vanished down the stairs. Lestrade turned to Sherlock.

"You're rubbing off on him. Stop it." And then the inspector rushed out the door leaving Sherlock standing slightly dazed in the living room, as his brain slowly catalogued the conversation.


End file.
